


The Marvin Gaye Affair

by arysteia



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:46:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6568654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysteia/pseuds/arysteia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A close call, and what it means to be close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Marvin Gaye Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venvephe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venvephe/gifts).



> For venvephe, for the prompt "injured sex". I tried to touch on as many of your other requests as I could, but that one wound up having a mind of its own. I really hope you enjoy it.

“Peril, will you put me down,” Napoleon demanded, struggling one handed to get out of his partner’s iron grip. “It’s my arm that’s broken, not my legs, and I assure you, I’ve been able to walk since I was nine months old.”

“Your arm is broken _in three places_ ,” Illya replied, striding through the lobby of the Athenée Palace in downtown Bucharest like he owned it – perish the capitalist notion – and like Napoleon weighed nothing at all. “Both bones. And all fingers. You also have sprained ankle you are attempting to conceal. And you were asleep in car. I will be judge of what you are capable of.”

If Napoleon hadn’t had first hand, hard won, knowledge of what banging a casted limb against a block of solid wood felt like, he’d have used the massive – and admittedly heavy and awkward – piece of plaster encasing his shattered arm to knock some sense into Illya’s thick head. Instead he settled for biting him hard on the earlobe, an area he had left foolishly undefended when sweeping Napoleon out of the car and into his arms. Illya, of course, didn’t even flinch.

Fortunately, the girl at the front desk was far too well trained to bat a gorgeous eyelash at the performance, though her male colleague disappeared through a back door without even the pretence of subtlety, no doubt to report to his colleagues in the _Securitate_ that Agents Kuryakin and Solo had survived their misadventures with Moldavian separatist gunrunners, and would continue to be an embarrassment to their home countries, and a credit to UNCLE, all at once.

“He is delirious from pain,” Illya said to the girl, whose name badge read _Crina_ , and who was indeed as pretty as a lily to Napoleon’s well trained eye. “One room please, just till morning. We fly out after breakfast,” he added loudly, for the benefit of all interested parties.

“Any luggage, sir?” Crina asked, as though she saw Russian giants carrying not-insubstantial Americans around bridal style every day. Perhaps she did, but in that case life behind the Iron Curtain was far more entertaining than Napoleon had been led to believe. Or perhaps the illicit hooch laced with unidentified painkillers he’d been plied with was going to his head.

“Just him,” Illya grunted, raising a foot to the kick bar in front of the counter and hefting Napoleon effortlessly onto his raised knee so he could free a hand to sign the register. “Please send sandwiches up to room in” – he craned his neck to peer around Napoleon’s bulk at his father’s watch still intact on his wrist despite all that had befallen them in the last week – “one hour.”

“Of course,” Crina said, her cupid’s bow lips finally losing their battle with a smile. “Your key.”

Illya took the key, heaved Napoleon back into his arms, and, disdaining the elevator, climbed the ornate marble staircase as though he had not also been held prisoner and tortured for two days.

Once they were out of sight of the lobby Napoleon gave up the stoic pretence and buried his face in the side of Illya’s neck. His arm really did hurt a hell of a lot, and while the backstreet doctor had done his best, having all the individual fractures reset in a darkened office after hours had been almost more painful than the original breaks. Almost. At least Illya had been holding his other hand this time, rather than cuffed to the chair opposite him, watching it being done and screaming about how he was going to kill everyone in the room. Ultimately he had done exactly that, and that was the last Napoleon was going to think on it, at least till next time, when the absolute certainty that Illya Kuryakin would _always_ manage to break out of whatever restraints he was in and rescue you, if you only held out long enough, would no doubt be a great comfort.

Between them they managed to get the door open, Illya kicking it shut again behind them before crossing the room to deposit Napoleon gently in an overstuffed armchair. Napoleon made himself as comfortable as he could, and watched as Illya did his best to manually check the room for bugs, absent any electronic equipment. He found two, which Napoleon called a good effort, but also felt was a rather poor show for the local security services, being so predictable in their choice of placement.

Once he was satisfied Illya kicked off his shoes, then crossed to the dresser to pour a generous glass of what looked like _slivovitz_ judging by the round bottle and black and gold label.

“Drink this,” he said tersely as he handed it over.

Napoleon sighed and did so. It was far better quality than the rotgut the doc had given him, and by the second swallow he was starting to feel pleasantly warm, the pain in his arm washing out like the tide. He finished the glass and glanced over at Illya, who had thrown back the heavy covers on the bed and was building some kind of fort out of every pillow and cushion in the room.

“What on earth are you doing, Peril?” he asked, making a point of enunciating clearly. Drunkenness and physical duress was no excuse for less than perfect diction.

Illya looked up at Napoleon, down at his handiwork, then back at Napoleon. “I am going to fuck you now,” he said, jaw firmly set.

“Are you?” Napoleon asked, surprised but not unhappy at this news. He’d frankly expected more of Illya’s unique brand of nursemaiding mixed with carping, based on how solicitous he’d been since dragging him out of the burning, corpse strewn wreckage of the Bessarabian Popular Front’s headquarters in Chisinau, and the entire frantic journey back to Bucharest, his arm splinted with chair legs and both their belts.

Every jolt and sudden turn of the car had sent a shock of agony through him, until he’d finally had to make Illya pull over so he could vomit noisily and humiliatingly out of the open door. The gentleness of Illya’s hands as they wiped the vomit and snot and tears off his face had been one of the only things keeping him going till they finally reached a contact they could trust to refer them to a doctor. After that it had been back to business as usual, sniping and snapping at each other, which now that he thought about it was really just another form of reassurance.

“I am,” Illya confirmed, cutting into his musing. And with that he crossed the room to seize Napoleon’s face in both hands, folding himself almost in half to bend down and kiss him hard on the mouth.

Napoleon wrapped his one working hand around Illya’s wrist, careful to avoid the heavy bandages where he had cut himself almost to the bone getting out of the steel cuffs. “I’m okay,” he whispered, the tremor in Illya’s fingers clear even as they stroked his neck and jaw. He didn’t often lose control the way he used to, wreaking havoc on furniture and surroundings, but the slight shaking was still a dead giveaway to someone who knew where and how to look.

Napoleon wasn’t sure he could even get it up, what with how much he’d had to drink on top of everything else, but if Illya wanted it, needed it, then he wasn’t going to say no. He stood up, careful to favour his bad ankle now that the jig was up, and sure enough Illya’s hands moved quickly to circle his waist, take the bulk of his weight as he helped him over to the bed. He sat down at the foot and toed off his shoes while Illya went into the bathroom, rummaging around for a moment before coming back out. He kissed Napoleon gently on the forehead, then knelt down between his knees and started carefully unbuttoning what was left of his shirt. The doctor had cut it off at the bicep, but he had to rip the seam up to the shoulder to get it over the bulky cast.

Napoleon sighed and lay back on the bed, letting Illya unbutton his pants, lifting his hips cooperatively when prompted, and drifting pleasantly as fingers trailed lightly over the bruises on his ribs, shoulders, upper arms.

“I’m sorry, Cowboy,” Illya said at last. “I should have got free sooner.”

“I never doubted you for a moment,” Napoleon said, and meant it. “I knew all I had to do was keep their focus on me and give you a chance.”

Illya made a strangled choking noise, and his lips went white where they pressed together. “Don’t do that again,” he said angrily.

“I’ll do it every time,” Napoleon said, meaning that too. “I never would have made it out of those handcuffs, if it had been the other way round. I never would have made it out of there at all, if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Stop talking,” Illya said, standing up abruptly and yanking his filthy turtleneck over his head. There were thick stripes, such a deep purple they were nearly black, spanning his stomach and lower ribs where the Moldavians had started in on him with a length of pipe, to so little visible reaction that they’d given up and turned back to Napoleon. It had to hurt though, and Napoleon’s own fingers were itching to touch, to reassure himself as Illya had done that he was whole and here with him.

“All right then,” he said. “How do you want me?”

Illya’s face softened. “Like this,” he said, coaxing Napoleon up the bed. The method in his madness became clear as he carefully rolled him over and arranged him on top of the pillows, one under his stomach, one for his head, and several to cushion and immobilise his arm. “Okay?”

“Mmhmm,” Napoleon agreed, pressing his face against the cool linen of the pillowcase. This was really quite nice, now that the last of the adrenaline had burned off, the last of the pain reduced to a dull throb easily ignored. The six months they’d been doing this had mostly been rushed encounters, fuelled by narrow escapes and near misses, and often by temper on one or both their parts. Affection had been slipping in around the edges for a while, but this slow, quiet, deliberateness was new.

Illya finished undressing, then kissed the small of his back before climbing up onto the bed, careful not to rock it, and warily settling astride Napoleon’s hips. “I’m not too heavy?” he asked, and he wasn’t, the bulk of his weight supported by his braced knees and tensed thigh muscles.  
Napoleon weakly waved him on with his good hand, too comfortable to raise his head. Whatever he’d been expecting, Illya’s own massive hands closing on his aching shoulders hadn’t been it. The left one stroked his shoulder blade once, then moved to press down solidly on his bicep, just above the top of the cast, holding Napoleon’s injured arm securely in place.

“Stay still,” Illya said quietly. “Don’t move.”

Napoleon didn’t want to move. Instead, he closed his eyes and just relaxed, secure in the knowledge that Illya would take care of him. Illya’s right hand closed on the back of his neck and squeezed firmly, fingers unerringly finding the deep seated tension in the nerves and starting to massage it away, then moving to his shoulders, right first, then very carefully the left. He worked the tight muscles with skill and confidence. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, after almost a year of watching Illya’s dexterity with the delicate inner workings of various bugs and trackers, to find that he could marshal his strength so finely, but somehow it was.

Against all odds, Napoleon began to feel the first threads of arousal curling in his belly. It wasn’t the blazing wildfire it usually was, when he and Illya were tossing each other into walls and onto hotel room and safehouse beds; it was a softer, sweeter feeling, fuelled by genuine affection and the desire to be close. It was easy to _say_ he’d never doubted, but there had been moments there, in that freezing cold basement, when he had honestly thought he was about to die. Hell, there’d been moments, particularly when his ulna snapped for the second time, the existing breaks grinding savagely together, that he’d wanted to. But that would have meant leaving Illya there alone – Illya who took his own beating in stoic silence but never stopped shouting during Napoleon’s, drowning out his own screams – and that was the last thing he’d ever do.

“Come on,” he said, not wanting to think about anything but the fact that they were here, now, alive and together.

Illya shifted carefully and settled his weight more evenly over Napoleon, legs bracketing his and arms curving around his upper torso, forehead resting lightly on the back of his neck. Napoleon was by no means a small man himself, but Illya’s sheer bulk had never been more obvious, and where usually he would have been restless and goading him to move, instead he just enjoyed the feeling of warmth and security. Illya leaned up to kiss the skin behind his ear, then dragged his lips across his jaw towards his mouth. Napoleon turned his head just enough for their lips to meet, and they kissed quietly for a few moments. Then Illya moved back to open whatever it was he’d found in the bathroom, his hard cock dragging across Napoleon's back, heavy and hot and wanting, leaving a sticky smear in its path that Napoleon could feel. He shivered in anticipation.

Slick fingers skimmed lightly down the cleft of his ass, then circled his hole, and Napoleon spread his legs as far as he could with Illya still straddling him. Illya didn’t hesitate, sliding first one and then a second slowly but surely into him. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry, despite his obvious arousal, stroking and relaxing Napoleon’s inner muscles just as thoroughly as he had his outer ones.

“That’s enough,” Napoleon said at last, when he could no longer stand it himself. “Peril, come on.”

Illya laughed – God it was good to hear it, it felt like it had been forever – and then he checked the placement of Napoleon’s arm in its nest of pillows, secured his shoulder again with his left hand, and used his right to shift his legs apart and move between them. There was a fumbling as he slicked himself up one handed, and then he pushed forward. The head of his cock slipped inside easily, and he waited just long enough for Napoleon to take a breath, then he was pushing in the rest of the way. He felt huge, and so hard, and _Christ_ , Napoleon had thought he’d never have this again. He could barely move under Illya’s restraining hand, but he managed to shift just enough to get the angle right, forcing the head of Illya’s cock against his prostate. He moaned, and clenched hard, and Illya cried out above him and started thrusting, slow, deep, coring thrusts that reached to the very heart of him.

Napoleon moaned again, and managed to snake his free hand between his body and the increasingly damp sheets, taking his own achingly hard cock in a firm grip. He was close, just a stroke or two away from coming, when Illya suddenly stopped moving.

“Peril?” he asked nervously.

Illya’s supporting arm shifted, wrapping fiercely tight around Napoleon’s chest, hand clenching, fingers digging into his ribs. Now he really was crushing the breath out of Napoleon, his full weight on him, and his own breath was gusting hot and wet in Napoleon’s ear.

“I thought you’d die this time,” he whispered hoarsely. “I thought I wouldn’t save you.”

A million beautiful, believable lies crossed Napoleon’s mind, but he breathed deep and didn’t utter any of them. “I know,” he said instead. “And maybe one day you won’t. But I know you’ll die trying.” It was a vicious, awful thing to say, but somehow it was the right thing anyway.

“Yes,” Illya said simply. “I will.” And then he started moving again, harder and faster, and he shifted his hand down to join Napoleon’s, and together they stroked once, twice, and then Napoleon was coming, moaning loudly into the pillow. Illya kept fucking him steadily through it, right to the moment where Napoleon thought it would be too much, and then he, too, was coming, biting down hard on the back of Napoleon’s neck.

They lay there, just breathing together, chests rising and falling in unison, for a few moments, then Illya rolled off him and heaved himself to his feet. Napoleon objected sleepily, but Illya stroked a hand through his hair and pulled up the blankets to cover him.

“I will run you a bath,” he said quietly. “By the time you get out, sandwiches will be here. Don’t fall asleep and drown.”

So the time for whispered confessions was over. Napoleon sighed, then pulled himself together. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Peril,” he said brightly. "How unforgivably bourgeois."


End file.
